


Commission: The Yandere Mother

by Ticklesforyou



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bondage, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mother Complex, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Non-Consensual Tickling, Parent/Child Incest, Questionable Consent, Sexual Fantasy, Shotacon, Teenagers, Tickling, Yandere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:21:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23699938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ticklesforyou/pseuds/Ticklesforyou
Summary: A pseudo-sequel to The Jealous Mother commissioned by the same person, following a different mother and child.Warning: This is a work of fiction. It is a sexual fantasy involving a self-insert mother who gives into the temptation to toy with her son while he is still a minor and grooms him to love her sexually in return. Potentially highly triggerable (even by my standards). Reader discretion is advised.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26
Collections: Commissions by Ticklesforyou





	Commission: The Yandere Mother

**Author's Note:**

> The name of this story is a bit of a misnomer. The commissioner wanted the mother to be an insane, overprotective and possessive yandere by the end of the story--and she is--but it didn't quite come out as strongly as originally planned. Just thought I'd mention that.

My name is Francine Mckarthy, and I am a happily married soldier’s wife with a tickling fetish who’s in love with my son.

Huh… Saying it out loud… that sounds really confusing. Let me start over.

My name is Francine Mckarthy, and for as long as I can remember, I loved tickling. Both being tickled and tickling other people. I used to have this friend when I was just a kid who loved it just as much as me. We experimented a lot when we were together, sometimes tickling each other in places that kids shouldn’t be touching each other. Eventually our parents caught on, we were both chewed out, punished harshly and forbidden from seeing each other, and to top it all off, he moved away a year later. I think the whole experience must have traumatized me because when I grew older, I had two powerful sexual desires for tickling and little boys, particularly ones around the age we were at the time.

Fast forward a little more than twenty years, and I’m now married to a handsome stud I met in college. He‘s also into tickling, though he’s actually a more of a ‘ler than a ‘lee, so I usually end up on the receiving end. Which is fine! I can deal with that and rope him into revenge scenarios every so often. The only real problem is his job. He’s in the special forces in the marine corp, which is… _sigh_ , you know, I can tie up and tickle the closest thing there is to superman which is _hot_ as fuck, but only when he’s actually here at home and only when I can convince him to let me. Most of the time, he’s on tour, fighting in the Middle East. I’m alone for months, sometimes years on end with no guarantee that he’ll come home alive.

Oh, my son? Yeah, you’re right, this is where he comes in. Early on in our marriage, my husband and I tried really hard to have a child, since there was no way to know when something would happen that would prevent him from being _able_ to have one. By the time I was twenty-one, I was pregnant, and before long, my baby boy, Ryan, was born.

Ryan is such a good little boy, always helping around the house and such. My husband encourages him to be the man who protects home while he’s away. I see so much of his father in him. Too much, honestly. I thought that since he was my son I could raise him without any weird feelings, but… around the time he turned five, I started to notice that I’d get turned on when playing tickles with him, _especially_ if my hubby had been away for more than a couple weeks. That was very… terrifying, so I stopped playing tickle games with him after that.

I used to think I was a horrible mother, feeling aroused by my own child, but what was I supposed to do? Leave home? While his father was on tour no less? No, that was a terrible idea. So I kept myself closed off. I kept my distance. I avoided touching my son as much as possible while still trying to be a good mother to him. 

But… I couldn’t do that. Not after the incident at age 7, when Ryan almost got run over by a car. If anything were to happen to him… 

So I ultimately decided on a compromise. I just wouldn’t tickle him. As long as I never saw Ryan getting tickled, I felt sure we could be a proper mother and son. I could touch him all I wanted and it wouldn’t be weird. And we lived with that compromise for a long time...

Everything started to change shortly after Ryan turned 11. I went into his room quietly one weekend afternoon, thinking he was taking a nap after staying up late the previous night--he did that sometimes. I swear I wasn’t trying to spy on him; I just wanted to gaze at his sleeping face, so I was quite stealthy in my approach. So you can imagine my surprise when I found him not sleeping but awake and surfing the web. Now, let me add for the record, that his bed is angled in a way that ensures his back is to the door to his room when he sits and plays on his laptop, so he never noticed me enter, never realized I saw what was on his screen and heard the faint sounds of laughter seeping out of his headphones, and never knew that I instantly recognized both the website he was on and the video he was watching.

It was a tickling vid on pornhub.

I stood there stunned for several minutes. I didn’t know if I should yell at him to stop, walk away quietly and pretend nothing happened… or tap him on the shoulder and tease him for having caught his hand in his pants. But well, the first one felt morally wrong--I wasn’t some religious paragon of sexual purity, after all--and the third instinct frightened me, so I took option two that day. 

But I couldn’t get the incident out of my mind. My son had a tickling fetish. How did that happen? Had my husband and I made a slip and let him see us have sex? Did he sneak onto my computer and find my search history? Or was it maybe just a genetic thing? Or a total coincidence?

But no. The cause didn’t really matter. Ryan liked tickling. Ryan _liked tickling._ For several days, I couldn’t get that thought out of my head. And it made me ask all kinds of questions. Why was I holding back again? Sure, sexual relations between parents and their kids is illegal and all, but… there’s nothing with a parent teaching her child about sex and helping them come to understand their preferences and stuff like that, right? Right, naturally, that sort of thing is totally normal. A responsibility, even. Right? Right. Okay, yes, that’s right.

I kept repeating that question and response over and over in my head, as if to justify it in my mind. _Right, this is right, this is completely okay and right._ That word kept playing through my head again and again like a mantra as I steeled myself a week later and walked into Ryan’s room. It was the middle of the night, and my boy was fast asleep. He tended to be a deep sleeper, so I knew this was the perfect time to help him learn more about his fetish without him running away like the awkward preteen he is, the precious boy.

First, I removed his pajamas, leaving him totally naked. (Don’t look at me like that! It’s not _my_ fault he doesn’t wear underwear under his pajama bottoms!) Then I took the straps that my husband and I would tie each up in (usually me) and bound him to the bed. It took a lot of adjusting, of course, and I almost thought they wouldn’t fit properly, but after some trial and error that got rough enough that I thought for sure Ryan would wake up, I finally got it right. And please don’t @ me--I’m not gonna lie; he looked… smoking hot! Like a miniature version of his dad but with my hair and no muscles. 

Now you might ask how long I had to wait until he woke up after that. Honestly, I didn’t have to; there’s was a very easy way to wake Ryan up despite how deeply he sleeps. No, no, I didn’t tickle him awake (although that would’ve been hot as hell and I really should try it some time); I just flipped on the light switch--Ryan can’t sleep when the lights are on.

He groaned awake, slowly blinking and pulling on the ropes. “Mmmooommm… It’s Saturday…” (Of course it was Saturday; I wasn’t going to do this on a school day.) I think he was trying to rub his eyes the cute way he usually does if I wake him up when he’s running late, but unable to do so, his eyes popped open, blinked, and then shifted up and down and all over the place. “What? What?!”

Finally those eyes looked at me. “Mom?! What?! What’s going on?!” 

It hurt a bit to see him take this so seriously. Didn’t he trust me? Or… Oh, maybe he could already tell what I was planning to do? Yes, that must’ve been it. His thoughts must’ve been overflowing with guilty ideas about what would happen next he didn’t want to admit to me. That was adorable. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” I said, trying to sound calmer than I felt. “Shh, shh, don’t worry, I’m just going to teach you about something special.”

“Special? What? I don’t… understand…” 

Was he trembling? No, no, I must’ve been imagining it. Then again, it probably wouldn’t hurt to explain. “I saw what you were watching on your computer. I know you were dreaming about… tickle games. I thought we could try it.” I almost said “being tickle fucked,” but that seemed too blunt. He was only 11, though; he probably wouldn’t know what the term meant. I would have to teach him step-by-step.

And oh, the look on his face. The way the redness poured in and his eyes widened in excitement (no, not terror: excitement). I could tell he wanted to experiment, but the poor boy was so adorably embarrassed he couldn’t admit it. “What? N-n-no, mom, that’s… I d-d-didn’t… Am I being punished?” 

“Punished?” Not really, but I didn’t see a reason not to run with it for now. “...Sure. Why not? You’ve been a naughty boy, looking at websites you shouldn’t be, and now Momma’s gonna punish you.” I sat down next to him while I was speaking and started to spider my fingers over his sides. He was so young, his skin was as soft and creamy as a girl’s. He puffed up his cheeks and tried to hold it in, but I’m his mother; even though I hadn’t done it in years, I knew exactly how to make him laugh. He couldn’t hold it more than three seconds before the giggles poured out. 

“Eeheeeheehee, noooo, Moooommmahahahahahaha, stohohohohohoppit!” 

Ahhh! The girlish giggling, the squirming, the begging, the smile! It was heavenly, and I hadn’t really even started yet. My hands roamed freely up my son’s sides to his ribs and armpits, greedily seeking everything I’d denied them for years. So soft. So small. So ticklish. In less than ten seconds I had become utterly drunk on all of it and couldn’t imagine why I’d ever hesitated to do this.

My son, on the other hand, still seemed reluctant to accept his true feelings. Ryan started complaining through his giggles about things that obviously didn’t matter. “Nooo, pleeeheheheaseheeeheeheehee! Iiiittt tihihihihihihihickles too muhuhuhuhuhuch!”

“There’s no such thing as too much tickles,” I tease in response. And just to prove that point further, I decided to tickle one of his two sweet spots. I was saving the best for last, so I whirled around to the opposite end of his body and dug my hands into his little feet.

The effect was explosive. “BWAHAHAHAHAHA, NOHOHOHOHOHO, MOHOHOHOHOHOMMYEHEEHEEHEEHEE! NOT MY FEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEET!” His laughter was delicious, but after a moment, I felt like maybe I was going too quickly with this; the best way to tickle is to slowly build up to climactic moments like this. So I quickly slowed down, going from digging into Ryan’s soles like crazy to slowly stroking up and down with my fingernails from the bottoms of his heels to just under the stems of his toes. 

Ryan’s laughter died down a bit, but it was still intense. Having his feet touched with feathers probably would’ve had him laughing uncontrollably. And he still begged me to stop, but I didn’t believe for a moment he meant it. In fact, I decided to test him a little. “Coochie coochie coo! Aw, do you want Mommy to stop tickling your feet? Would you rather I tickle your _other_ tickle spot instead?” This was a trick question because I knew his other spot was even more ticklish than his feet. And he knew it too, which is probably why he suddenly stopped trying to talk through his giggles. I even stopped tickling him for a moment and questioned him about it again, and I could tell he was struggling to decide. There was this adorably conflicted look on his face, where he kept looking between me, the spot in question and some place off to the side while biting his lip.

But he didn’t answer quickly enough for my liking, so I decided to give him some encouragement by tickling his toes. I asked him a third time if he wanted me to tickle him _there_ , and this time he yelled, “YES, YES, PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEASSSSE TIHIHIHIHIHIHICKLE MY NIHIHIHIHIHIHIPPLES!”

Yes, that’s right. My son’s nipples were his number one sweet spot. Don’t look at me like I shouldn’t know that; he’s a boy not a girl. Not to mention I’m his mother. It was perfectly natural for me to tickle him there when he was younger, so of course I would know.

Now where was I? Oh yes. After one last flick of my fingernails against his tootsies, I flipped back around to his upperbody, and tapped one of his nipples once with a fingernail before asking, “So, are you having fun then?”

There was an adorable blush on his face, and he stared at my fingers for several seconds before answering. “...Yes…” he finally said with a guilty grin appearing on his face. “This whole thing feels weird, though…”

“That’s because this is how adults play,” I said tactfully. “I’m doing this with you because you’re becoming a man, and I think you’re ready for it. Most boys your age wouldn’t understand, though, so keep it a secret, okay?” I thought my son’s face might twist around in confusion--most people have trouble thinking that tickling can be an adult thing. But Ryan had already discovered it in porn. So rather than bewilderment, he swelled up with pride. I might as well have said, “Today you become a man!” to him. I actually felt guilty again, for a moment, because truthfully at present, all I really saw him as was my adorable little shota boy. But I couldn’t stop now, could I? Too late for regrets; nothing to do but continue. “Now then, are you ready for some more?” I asked, wiggling my fingers toward his nipples.

Ryan “Eep!”ed and giggled twitching away from the hands even though I hadn’t touched him yet. “Wait, wait, Mommy, m-m-maybe that’s enough for today?” he asked, but the grin on his face was slightly more playful than nervous, and I knew he didn’t _really_ want me to stop.

So I responded by slowly lowering my fingernails down toward the two pink buds whispering, “Tickle, tickle, tickle,” quietly at first but growing louder each time. When my fingers touched down, I was half-yelling the words in a singsong tone, and Ryan bucked and squirmed like a madman. I played with those nipples for a long time that day. I pinched and flicked and stroked and scratched. I used my fingers, feathers, brushes, my son’s little stuffed dog he never outgrew. And down south from where my attention was, Ryan was sporting a little boy erection, but I chose to ignore that. Initially I’d been thinking I might tickle him even down there, but in hindsight, I didn’t think I was ready to cross that line yet. He was still 11 after all. Some things should wait until he was older.

Well, needless to say, things were never the same after that. Ryan and I never talked about it during the week, and we _certainly_ never talked about it to anyone else. But every so often on a day when he didn’t have school and my husband wasn’t home, I would wake Ryan up with surprise tied-up tickles in bed. At first it was a sort of once-every-two-months fun time. By the time he was 12, it was once every month. By the time he was 13, it was once every other week. And before he was 14, it had started begging me to do it every single Saturday. I think Ryan was a very early bloomer. I caught him masturbating after sessions when I was out of the room shortly before he turned 15. 

And yet in spite of that, and in spite of the fact that I always stripped him naked while tickling him--and even started doing the same myself--I never touched him down there. The closest I got to touching him sexually was focusing on his nipples, sometimes while kissing his cheeks or forehead. They were his most ticklish spot by far and left him in stitches no matter how I abused them, but they were also an erogenous zone and I knew he was starting to want more. But he was afraid to ask, and I... Some part of me was afraid to cross that final line.

I’m not an idiot. I knew how far gone I was by now. I was lusting after my own son, and I knew he was also lusting after me. By age sixteen, my son was as hairy as his father, which was hot in its own way, but he seemed to know I liked him better smoother, or maybe he felt more ticklish smooth, so he borrowed my shaver and used it make his body baby smooth every Friday night before bed. And I knew that included the hair around his groin. I knew he was shaving it on purpose in the hopes I’d touch him there. I knew, and it scared me. Our relationship had long past the bounds of what was healthy for a parent and child. In fact, in hindsight, I guess it wouldn’t be a stretch to say that I had traumatized and brainwashed him into this during the most delicate time of his life, just as I was. That guilt kept me from going that final step for a long, long time...

Then, one hot summer day on Ryan’s 17th birthday, while once again his father was unfortunately overseas fighting the good fight, Ryan and I got into a fight. It was a little silly, really. I asked him what he wanted to do for his birthday, and he took this super dramatic deep breath and said, “Mom, I want to fuck.”

Let me tell you, I knew this day was coming, but I never expected it would come so… bluntly. I reeled in surprise for a minute, asking him to repeat himself, which he did, word for word. I tried to play it off as a joke and suggest something else, but he interrupted me with those exact same words a third time to make sure I knew he was both extremely serious and dead set on this.

In hindsight, the fact that he was coming onto me so hard and I was so hesitant is hilarious considering how all of this started. If he wasn’t so well-groomed for the sub role, I’d say he’d suddenly felt like he was trying to become the master--or the “Mommy” we would say--of our sex games. The more I tried to dodge or refuse, the more resolute his replies got, and finally he yelled at me, “Do you think I’m an idiot?! I’m 17! I know how this stuff works! I don’t care that you’re my mom. Maybe I do care that you practically raped me to make me this way, but… I can’t stop feeling these things anymore! I want you and you want me, so stop treating me like a fucking kid! We’re way past that bullshit!”

It was only then I realized this was probably the result of Ryan’s rebellious phase. Funny it hadn’t been a problem sooner. But like any teen, Ryan wanted what his parents weren’t giving him, regardless of whether or not it was good for him. And that, in this case, was sex. Strange how things work out sometimes.

Let me explain something to you parents out there. A teen in his rebellious phase gets what he wants. By force if need be. The only two ways to deal with someone like that are to find a way to change what he wants or just give it to him. Well, maybe that’s just an excuse I made up after the fact to justify what happened next, but… Okay, so sue me; I absolutely refused to have him fight me to the point of rape. If we were having sex, then we were having sex my way, with Ryan all tied up beneath me as he should be.

So, reluctantly, I bound him to the bed and prepared for the next session. Knowing what was about to happen next, I almost felt like I was looking at him for the first time. Ryan had his father’s face, eyes and muscles, but my black hair. And like I said before, he was shaved silky smooth. His manhood was also large--larger than his father’s by this point. Must come from somewhere on my side of the family. All the while as I cuffed him, he stared at me with a stern expression, almost as if he was saying, “You better make me cum this time, woman,” with his eyes.

Finally, with him all strapped in, I took a deep sigh of relief. There was a powerful pressure in the air between us, but knowing that he was tied down reinvigorated my sense of dominance. Yes, that’s right, I was the dom here, not him. And as such… “You want sex so badly? Fine then, you naughty boy.” Like a switch being flipped, I recovered my cocky, teasy persona. I turned turned to the table of tickle-tools that we left lying out in the open next to the bed and picked up a hairbrush, stroking it lovingly and delivering my ultimatum. “However, it’s not good for a ‘lee to try to boss around a ‘ler. I’m going to have to punish you for that _severely_ first.”

“No, please, not the brush! I’m sorry Mommy, I’ll never do it again.” His begging sounded and looked quite genuine, the results of many years of practice. I knew that he loved it, but he in turn knew that I loved it when he begged, and better still, that I loved to make him switch what he was begging for mid-session multiple times. In other words, if his goal was to make me want to fuck him, it was working.

But that would be later. For now, I had a date with Ryan’s feet. I brought the brush down with me to the foot of the bed and sat down. I wiggled it in the air over them where Ryan could see. He shook his head. I nodded mine. He shook his again harder. I nodded and lowered the brush to his sole.

And then, I started scrubbing.

The laughter was loud and instantaneous. “AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! NOOOOOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO!” Yes, yes, yes, I loved this! I utterly loved driving my son wild! I loved the way his body shook and jerked. I loved the way his foot would try and fail to slip out of my grip. I loved the sound of the helpless, pleading laughter coming out of his mouth, which could only be increased further by one method I knew of. I loved the feeling of just crushing his foot’s nerves with the full force of the brush. And I loved the way his penis flipped and flopped about with his jerking, trying so very hard to get my attention.

Oh, and of course, there was one more thing I loved. “Tiiickle, tickle, tickle! You’ve been such a bad boy! You need more tickles, don’t you? Yes you do! Mommy’s going to tickle you aaallll day!” I loved to tease him. Honestly, I think that was the only part he _didn’t_ like anymore. Ryan didn’t really like being talked-down to anymore; he wanted to think of himself as a big strong man. But I was sure it turned him on anyway, and today I took it a step further. “You want to marry Mommy? You want to have sex with Mommy? Aw, but to Mommy, you’re her cute little ticklish baby!”

“FUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUCK THAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAT!” 

The exclamation took me by surprise. I didn’t think he’d be able to talk while I was tickling him this hard. I figured it was worth a reward, so as swiftly as I could, I rushed back over to the table, switched tools and jumped up on Ryan’s stomach. Now bringing two paintbrushes down toward his nipples, I rebuked, “What was that? What did you just say to Mommy? Did you just swear at Mommy?” Ryan shook his head vehemently, perhaps worried that I wouldn’t give him what he asked for if he made me too mad. But I wasn’t mad. I was practically in heat, and a voice in my head was saying, _It is time._ “Then… were you asking Mommy to fuck you?”

At this point, at surprised Ryan by twisting around and applying the brushes slowly to the one part of his body I’d always reverently left untouched. They both started brushing over his shaft, one going up to twist around on the tip, the other going down until it started playing with his ballsack. Ryan gasped, then giggled, then laughed, then moaned, and finally screamed the most genuine plea I think I’d ever heard from him during one of our sessions. “FUCK! YES! PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE FUCK MEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE MOMMYHEHEHEHEHEHE!”

That one phrase passed through me like a jolt of electricity. Why were we not having sex again? Because of legality? Morality? Did I really care about either of those things at this point? No, no I did not, and having thusly “justified” my next course of action, I pulled up my skirt, pulled down my panties, and went down on my son. I felt his big, meaty cock filling me up and heard him let out a loud, satisfied moan at the sensation he’d wanted so long. _I’m doing it. I’m having sex with my son._ The words flitted through my mind, and I felt… no guilt whatsoever. 

Whatever fear and hesitation that lingered snapped and broke, and I lifted the brushes again greedily. “Alright, my little boy, time for Mommy’s new series of lessons: how to ticklegasm properly.”

“No, please, save me,” he responded much more sarcastically than normal. Well, that ticked me off a bit, so I wasted no time dropping the brushes down to his nipples and turning him into a bucking, blubbering mess. He thrust, and thrust, and thrust in the midst of his struggles like a wild animal, and I loved every second of it because I, Francine McKarthy, am a happily married soldier’s wife with tickling obsession who’s deeply in love with my son.

...

P.S. I learned two very important lessons that day. My son was a quick shot, which frustrated me like I can’t begin to describe. And he becomes so ridiculously ticklish on his balls after cumming that it makes up for it a hundredfold. Still, I think I may need to train him to hold his orgasm longer so I can enjoy it properly. Maybe next time I’ll deny him for a few hours?...

**Author's Note:**

> This work was commissioned from me via my DeviantArt/Discord account. If you like what you see and want more--or if you don't like what you see and want something different--feel free to contact me and place a commission. Pricing is $5 for every 300 words. Full details on my DA account under the same username.


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